"I am sorry anybody should complain of me. Is that because I didn't go to see her when she was away?"
"I'm sure the rest of us could have stood it, if you had come when she was gone, Miss Faith," said the Squire gallantly. "Seems to me we haven't seen you down to our house for an age of Sundays."
"I will try to come of a week day," said Faith. "I think you never saw me there Sunday, Mr. Deacon."
"I suppose an age of Sundays must be seven times as long as any other age," said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that the origin of the phrase, Squire Deacon?"
"Very like," said the Squire—who didn't care to be interrupted. "I don't know much about originals,—when a man has a position to fill, sir, he can't study knick-knacks. What a handsome book, Miss Faith! such a becoming colour."
"Don't you like the inside of books too, Mr. Deacon?" said Faith.
"I daresay I should that one," said the Squire,—"the outside's like a picture—or a view, as some people call it. Looks just like a grain field in spring. What's the name of it, Miss Faith?"
Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand.
The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then—it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink.
"So!" he said—"it's his'n, is it!"